Page 5 of Calder Country

“And how long will that be?”

She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Days. Weeks. Maybe never. Meanwhile, the money is safe. I’ll pay you a salary for managing the ranch, but only if you do your job.”

I’m not your employee, Mother. I’m your son! When you’re gone, this ranch will be mine!

He wanted to shout the words at her, but that would only steel her resolve to control him. For now, he would pretend to go along with her plan. But he couldn’t get back into the bootlegging business without seed money up front.

His bedroom was much as he’d left it, his clothes and boots in the closet, his socks and underthings in the bureau drawers. Mason liked dressing well. In his first sojourn away from the ranch, he’d spent money on expensive clothes—shirts of linen and silk, leather jackets and vests, trousers of fine wool gabardine, and custom-made boots—the kind of things that didn’t go out of style. Even his work clothes were of exceptional quality. Dressed, he could pass for a wealthy rancher—even if, for now, his mother controlled his every dollar. That would soon change, he vowed. It would have to.

After enjoying his first real bath in five years, he shaved, dressed, and combed his hair. Groomed and dressed in his own clothes, he’d expected to look much as he had before his arrest. But as he stood before the full-length mirror, it was a stranger he saw looking back at him—his hair showing strands of early gray, his intense green eyes framed by leathery creases. There was a hardness about his mouth—a mouth that had all but forgotten how to smile—and a determined set to his jaw. His nose, broken in a prison brawl and never properly set, gave him the look of a street tough. His clothes hung on his lean, sinewy body in a way he’d never noticed before.

His discarded clothes and shoes, courtesy of the Montana Corrections System, lay in a heap on the floor. The smell that rose from them recalled the five-year nightmare of prison—the kitchen slop that passed as food, the steaming bleach scent of the laundry, the toilets, the stench of sweating bodies. Mason shuddered. He would roll everything into a tight bundle, take it downstairs, stuff it into the trash bin, and forget it. He wanted nothing to remind him of that time. The scars on his body would be enough.

As he lifted the vest, a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. It was the leaflet that had been dropped from the airplane. Mason unfolded it and reread the announcement about the air show.

Maybe he should go.

The more he thought about the idea, the more it made sense. Sooner or later, he would have to face his old acquaintances in Blue Moon. Putting it off would only make things harder. He’d been seen driving through town. Word would already be spreading that Mason Dollarhide was back.

So, why not show up dressed like a gentleman and standing tall? True, he’d been in prison, but not for harming anyone in Blue Moon. His crime had been a violation of federal law—a law that many people hated and believed to be unfair. Now that he had paid the price with five years of his freedom, with a few months’ probation for good behavior, he owed no one an apology.

Refolding the paper, he slipped it into the hip pocket of his trousers. It was early yet. He’d have time to look over the ranch before leaving for town. Among other things, he needed to know how many cattle and horses were on the place, what condition they were in, and who was taking care of them. The sooner he stepped into running the ranch and took a firm hand, the better his chances of accessing the money he needed.

* * *

An hour later, he was on his way back to town. His old car, a high-end Model T, had been kept in running condition, probably to transport his mother on her errands. Mason had seen newer and nicer autos in Miles City today, and not just Fords. There were Chryslers, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks; and he’d seen ads for luxury Cadillacs and Packards that would be a dream to own. But getting a fancy car would have to wait until he could afford it. Meanwhile, he had his work cut out for him.

What he’d seen of the ranch had dismayed and worried him. Most of the cattle had been sold off last year. With no stock to breed, there’d be nothing to ship to market this fall. Even the horses, the best ones, were mostly gone. What had his mother been thinking? Surely she couldn’t have been that desperate for money. Mason could only conclude that she was ill, not in her body but in her mind.

For now, he would put his gloomy thoughts aside and try to enjoy the air show. In a town like Blue Moon, where exciting events were rare, the chance to see a plane close up and maybe even ride in one would draw a crowd. Would Blake’s family be there? Would Joseph be with them?

In prison, after Joseph had rejected him, Mason had told himself that he didn’t care about his son. But now, the prospect of seeing the boy triggered a surge of hope. Maybe Joseph’s youthful anger had mellowed. Maybe they could talk and become friends. He might even offer Joseph the ticket for a free plane ride.

Blake wouldn’t like that. Neither would Blake’s wife, Hannah. The innocent girl Mason had impregnated twenty years ago—the girl Blake had married after Mason skipped town—had matured into a lovely, confident woman. And for his unselfish act, Blake was reaping the rewards of a beautiful family—a rich dynasty for any man.

Neither Blake nor his wife had any use for Mason. If they happened to be at the air show today, and if he were to approach them, they would probably turn their backs.

But others would welcome him. His half-sister, Kristin, a doctor, would never turn her back on him. And his boyhood chums, the ones who’d stayed in Blue Moon, would greet him with open arms. With luck, he might even meet a woman—preferably a widow, who knew the score and wouldn’t mind his company on a lonely night. She wouldn’t even have to be pretty as long as she was willing. Otherwise, his only recourse would be to visit one of the “nieces” at Jake’s Place. His need of a woman was becoming an itch that demanded to be scratched.

The printed announcement hadn’t specified where the air show would be staged. But the open field east of town, once used to park heavy grain wagons and stable the giant draft horses that pulled them, was the logical choice. Now used for ball games, horse races, community picnics, and other functions, the field was spacious enough for a small plane to land and take off, with no nearby trees, fences, or grazing animals to worry about.

In Blue Moon, people were moving toward the field, some walking, some in autos and buggies, and others, mostly boys, on bicycles. It was early yet. Mason took his time driving down Main Street. His eyes scanned the passing crowd for people he might remember. There were surprisingly few. A man in overalls gave him a grin and a wave. He looked vaguely familiar, but Mason couldn’t recall his name.

As he parked the Model T with other vehicles along the near side of the field, he could see the plane sitting in the open. The Curtiss Jenny models had been mass-produced for use in the Great War, mostly for pilot training. After the fighting ended in late 1918, the surplus planes had been sold at bargain prices to the public. The sturdy, lightweight Jennies, as they were called, were bought by the hundreds, many of them by pilots who’d returned from the war, who used them to make a living, flying from town to town, putting on shows and selling rides. The practice was known as barnstorming.

Glancing down the row of parked vehicles, Mason spotted a shiny, new dark green Buick, a car that had big money written all over it. Only one member of the community would drive a car like that—Webb Calder, who ruled the Triple C Ranch like a feudal lord.

Webb, who towered over most of his neighbors, was easy to spot among the gathering crowd. Now in early middle age, he still moved with a cowboy’s easy grace, his body built for the saddle. His taciturn presence commanded respect. Webb Calder was the man that other men wanted to be. But, as Mason reminded himself, Webb had done nothing to earn his wealth and power. His most telling accomplishment was having been born a Calder.

But it wasn’t Webb that Mason had come to see.

The crowd, kept at a distance from the plane by a staked rope, was growing. Mason scanned the newcomers, hoping to spot a familiar, boyish face. But there was no sign of Blake’s family. With a ranch and a sawmill to manage, Mason’s half-brother probably wouldn’t spare the time for an outing. Blake had kept his nose to the grindstone all his life. He was probably raising Joseph the same way. Pity. Young manhood should be a time for fun and adventure.

Another man, even taller than Webb, moved past Mason, balancing a small, golden-haired girl on his shoulder. Mason turned aside to avoid being recognized. Sheriff Jake Calhoun had been the one to arrest and jail him five years ago. The man had treated him decently, but the memory of that time evoked nothing but humiliation.

The glint of a silver star on his vest confirmed that Jake Calhoun was still sheriff. But the tiny girl on his shoulder, dressed in a rumpled pinafore, with her hair in a lopsided braid—that had to be an interesting story.

“Mason?”

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